Sashes, Sashes Everywhere
by AlienZombies
Summary: Cecil is a grumpy templar in training. Marvin is a new mage who loves to cook. It's a match made in heaven. MxM Rating may go up.
1. Of Harrowings

My first Dragon Age fanfiction... eep! Please let me know what you think! And please excuse any inaccuracies... codex was a little vague on the specific workings of the Temple itself. This takes place post-DA:O.

**Sashes, Sashes Everywhere**

"Two Harrowings scheduled in one day," Israel grumbled over breakfast. She speared her eggs viciously with her fork, as if they had mortally offended her. "It's utter nonsense. One abomination is bad enough."

"They might both end well," Nikolai remarked hopefully. "They will likely both come out true mages."

"Optimism is a useless trait," Israel said sourly.

"This is the largest apprentice class I've ever seen," Trainer Ethan said. He was soft-spoken, but still his words cut over the general chatter with astounding efficiency. "Which means more mages and more abominations, both."

"Did you do that math in your head?" Cecil asked with mock amazement. Ethan punched his arm hard enough to bruise, laughing.

"Just for that, I'm putting you on duty for both Harrowings today. You're welcome."

"That's like, four hours! You're no fair."

Israel snickered at him and her poor mood lightened. Nikolai made a sympathetic noise and plucked a bit of fruit from his bowl.

"See where your mouth gets you," he said. He could be a bit condescending for someone so young – only sixteen years old, three years younger than Cecil, almost a baby by the standards of most recruits. But his faith in the Maker was strong, and his unwavering nerve had earned him recognition early.

Cecil glowered but didn't comment. He knew still more punishments lurked in Trainer Ethan's formidable brain, especially where his star student Nikolai was concerned. "Fine, I'll do it," he muttered. "Maker's breath."

"Think of it as a solid learning opportunity," Trainer Ethan told him with a beatific smile. "It's an adventure! You like adventures, don't you?"

Watching terrified teenagers return from the darkness with tainted souls did not exactly suit Cecil's idea of fun. Some people came out more beast than human, bodies contorting in agony as some form that was not their own battled for expression; there was no satisfaction in the feeling of a child's hot blood spilling into your hands.

But this was his calling in life. He would do what he must.

"The first Harrowing starts in about an hour, speaking of which," Trainer Ethan added suddenly. "You'd better hurry up."

"Remember to take a piss before you go!" Israel reminded Cecil as he jumped to his feet. "You'll be wishing you had after two hours of doing absolutely nothing."

Leaving the other trainees behind to their breakfast, Cecil went to suit up. He didn't feel like he had much of an appetite anymore, anyway.

oOo

An hour passed. It was not a terribly long time, for a Harrowing; some could extend as long as two hours before it was time to "cut the cord," as Master Trainer Erwin used to say. Still, the passing of an entire hour was enough to stir Cecil from the muggy half-consciousness he had been occupying for the last twenty minutes. Most Harrowings ended right about now, on average, which meant action in the worst case and victory in the best.

The apprentice in question, a tiny little elf named Marvin, stood leaning over the pedestal, gripping it so tightly with his hands that the knuckles stood out white beneath his skin. He was entirely motionless, his breathing slowed so much it was hardly noticeable; his head was bowed, lips slightly parted, and behind his eyelids his eyes darted frantically from side to side. A trance, a dream.

Sometimes, Cecil wondered what these mages were thinking at a time like this. Their entire lives, their very sanity was boiled down to this single test – and there was a fifty-fifty chance that they would not come out with their heart still beating. He had seen the Fade once, for educational reasons of course, and he would likely see it again when he was inducted as a full templar. It was a dreadful place, endlessly massive with endless horrors in endless time.

This Harrowing should have been more interesting than the others, because Cecil knew this apprentice. Not personally, of course – but he'd seen enough of the elf to recognize him by name. Cecil was often posted outside of the apprentices' quarters, and Marvin had a fancy for sneaking out in the night to study. It was usually at least three times a week that Cecil or another templar had him by the ear, dragging him back to bed, and it really was a wonder that he hadn't been branded for experimentation on blood magic, yet. Most of his books, however, were about cooking rather than magic or potions. A useless skill for a mage, really.

His mind was wandering again, and Cecil shook his head to clear it. The last thing he wanted was to snap back to reality with an abomination trying to kill him. This was the primary reason he wasn't yet a real templar; he lacked focus.

Trainer Wesley was eyeing Cecil over the elf mage's bent head. His stare was cold, disapproving. Cecil didn't particularly like Trainer Wesley because he was such a distant man, and even now that look made ice puddle in Cecil's feet. He glued his mouth shut and tried to look dutiful. His stomach growled.

Little Marvin had begun to tremble just slightly. It was more of a vibration, and light flared briefly beneath the epidermis of his skin, like live snakes whipping inside of him in place of blood. Douglas, another templar, tightened his grip on his sword compulsively and then let go, his hand flexing again and again at the hilt with a restless, unspoken blood thirst.

Nobody spoke. It wasn't customary to speak, because it would distract the apprentices. That distraction could mean tipping the very delicate balance between life and death.

The elf's breathing deepened, grew faster. His knuckles cracked as his grasp on the pedestal tightened even more. The process of waking up could take quite a while, so Cecil wasn't excited by the change – not yet. Douglas started swaying from foot to foot.

Another ten minutes passed. Marvin went quiet again, shoulders hunched, seeming to thrum with energy. It was the stillness that was the clue, the utter arrest of his breathing. Trainer Wesley gave the signal to be alert.

And then the mage burst through with a deep, rasping breath from deep in his chest, as if he had just surfaced from deep, cold waters. His entire body heaved as he worked for air, his knees going weak, but his grip on the pedestal maintained his stability. Spit and then a thin string of blood – not quite blood, it wasn't that, it was some sort of purging of the taint – spilled from his mouth.

Most astonishing were his eyes; they were opened very wide, taking in the real world again, and they were startlingly clear. Blue.

"He's fine," Trainer Wesley declared.

The boy elf wretched and made a strangled screaming noise. All at once, he released the pedestal and fell back, where Cecil caught him bodily. It was like catching a warm, writhing bundle of rags, the little mage was so weightless. His head rolled and then settled against Cecil's chest, the lithe body shivering all over, breath still catching on that soundless mouth.

Unsure what to do, Cecil held him up, looked down into that pale, stunned face. An abrupt cold sweat had stuck the mage's hair to his face.

"This is normal," Cecil heard himself saying comfortingly. "These symptoms are normal. Do you feel like yourself?"

Those blank blue eyes sought out his face and then, seeing him, locked onto him with an unsettling fierceness. It was as if he were drowning and had finally caught hold of a raft. He would not let go.

"Got him," Marvin rasped. "He lied to me."

"That's what they do, I think," Cecil replied. Perhaps it was a bit glib, because Marvin's face washed out.

"He did quite well, I think," the First Enchanter commented. "One of the best I've seen in a long while."

Marvin looked blindly about, and laughed in a thin, absent sort of way. He pushed himself away from Cecil's arms and stood swaying on his own two feet. This didn't seem to work for him, because he staggered hard right and then collapsed, unconscious, on the floor.

Cecil nudged him with his boot, but the boy stayed thoroughly out.

"I am pleased at this success," the First Enchanter said. "Someone should take him back to the apprentice quarters to rest."

"Cecil," Trainer Wesley said.

As a trainee, that was his job. Of course it was. Struggling not to roll his eyes, Cecil bent and scooped the body of the elf into his arms. Marvin's head lolled uselessly until Cecil slung him over his shoulder. The apprentice's knees banged noisily against his armor, but the pain didn't wake him from his coma.

"Gently," Trainer Wesley corrected reproachfully.

Cecil adjusted his grip until the mage was settled in his arms like a bride. "Satisfactory?" he asked.

Disliking Cecil's tone, Trainer Wesley slitted his eyes and nodded.

It was a relief to leave that stale, death-stained Harrowing chamber behind.

The sleeping elf wasn't poor company, either. He smiled in his sleep.

oOo

The apprentice quarters were not quite abandoned. There were a scattering of the few more antisocial apprentices, a templar stationed at the door, and one Tranquil managing a spill of some kind in the corner.

One of the apprentices, sitting cross-legged on his bunk, cried out at the sight of Cecil carrying Marvin in. He scrambled to his feet, bouncing about barefoot in nothing but his sleeping gown. It was after supper and he must have had plans to tuck in early, Cecil assumed. His eyes glittered with concern.

"He's alive, isn't he?" the boy asked as Cecil came near. "He made it."

"No, I'm bringing the corpse in as an example to all of you," Cecil answered sardonically. "We normally toss them out the window, but I thought it best you all have a look at a slain abomination."

The boy's face paled, and his hands wrung together nervously. "You're joking, aren't you?" he stammered. "Right?"

"Of course I'm bloody fucking kidding." Cecil hefted the elf's body so that the other apprentice could more easily see his face. "See that? The face of a new mage."

"Thank the Maker," his friend muttered breathlessly. "So he's clean? Not tainted or anything?"

"No. He's sleeping it off… Should be fine in a couple of days, I think. Where's his bed?"

The boy pointed at the bunk beside his own, and Cecil laid the elf's body down carefully.

"He'll be all right, then?" the boy insisted.

"Yes, fine, of course," Cecil mumbled. "Shit, he survived, didn't he? Let him have some air. What's your name, anyway?"

"Peter."

"When's your Harrowing, Peter?"

Peter's mouth quirked uneasily. "You're not planning on killing me, are you?"

"Don't get cute."

"It should be soon," Peter answered. His hands wrung each other out. He seemed to be an anxious sort of kid, waif and pallid, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. "I suspect two weeks. First Enchanter Francis said I'm almost ready."

"Your friend did very well, I heard," Cecil told him. It was his best attempt at being kind. "Don't worry about him. He's strong."

"Thank you," Peter whispered. His cheeks colored.

Nodding curtly, Cecil turned around sharply and walked out.

oOo

His long day of punishment over, Cecil was relieved to finally be able to rest. He would have shifts guarding the apprentices all throughout the next day, but tonight was his.

Israel stood in the hallway of the templar quarters, playing with a string game. She glanced up at Cecil passed by, and he stopped to look back.

"How did the Harrowings go?" she asked conversationally. When she wasn't in a black mood, she was a relatively agreeable person. She was in her common clothes, rather than her armor, though it did just as much for her figure. For a girl, she was broad-shouldered and solidly built, with almost no breasts to speak of; her hips were wide and her legs the thickest part of her, meaty and solid. She was no wisp of a woman, and did not act it. Her auburn hair was all cut away, leaving a short, spiked layer like grass. She was short, and came up to Cecil's shoulder.

In a way, she reminded Cecil of his sister, before she had died. Perhaps that was how he managed to stand her.

"No abominations today, actually. It's pretty good, all things considered."

"Hmm. I'm grateful," she said. "I didn't need you weeping around about killing an abomination or two."

"I do not weep around."

"Shit," she laughed. "You're a liar."

Not in the mood to be teased, Cecil sniffed and wandered away. He found his way to the commons, where he curled up on a sofa and zoned out. He found it soothing to let his mind wander free from his body, to places beyond the tower, beyond even Ferelden. He had been scolded before for being a daydreamer, but while he did care for his work he couldn't help but feel the hours of tedium were a bit… well, _boring_.

"Are you dead, or just miles away?" A playful voice brought Cecil back into his body. Nikolai was peering down at him with a face-splitting grin.

Though there were dozens of other trainee templars in the tower, Cecil didn't interact with many of them. A lot of templars were cold people, grim-faced and emotionless. It was easier to sever ties to emotions than deal with them, especially when it came to the elimination of blood mages. Cecil, however, found their conversation to be utterly boring, and their blank faces to be condescending. He knew that they truly had feelings brewing underneath, and they probably considered him the lesser for letting them show; knowing that they were truly human behind that stony exterior drove him mad.

"What do you want?" Cecil snapped, and the smile dropped from Nikolai's face instantly.

"That bad of a day, was it?" he asked. "And here I'd heard that there were no mishaps."

"There weren't any."

"Mmm." Nikolai frowned thoughtfully. "So you're just being an irritable arse."

"Essentially."

"Then you won't mind if I sit with you."

Cecil laughed, and Nikolai grinned at his victory. They sat together on the sofa – Cecil in his common clothes and Nikolai in his pajamas, bare feet and all – and talked for most of the night. Nikolai, who was early to sleep and early to rise, kept rubbing at his eyes with the determination to stay awake.

They had arrived on the same day, on the same ship, to become templars. Nikolai came all of the way from a land beyond Orlais and Antiva, and his fractured English was even worse then, when he was nervous. Language courses would help him with that before the year was over, however; he had a gift for words. Being raised in the Chantry had given him that gift, at least, with the beautiful language of Andraste's teachings.

Though they were hardly compatible in personality, that shared experience had brought them together as friends.

"You know Marvin, don't you?" Cecil asked.

Nikolai snorted. "Of course. Who doesn't know Marvin? An utter pain, Maker bless him."

"He's a mage now. Caught him myself. He drooled on my armor."

"Oh, good, so now we have to watch him sneaking out of the _mage's_ quarters now," Nikolai said wryly. "Why is it always the most difficult ones that make it through?"

"That doesn't seem very kind of you, oh holy one," Cecil teased, and Nikolai winked in response.

"I don't wish ill of him. If the Maker has smiled on him today, then so will I."

The strength of Nikolai's faith was sometimes humbling to Cecil, who often had doubts. When Nikolai spoke of Andraste, his dark eyes shone, and his fey little face would light up from within. There was a fire in him that burned for the Maker; it was something the templars encouraged, nurtured. It was something that Cecil couldn't quite master.

So caught up in his thoughts, Cecil didn't realize that Nikolai had fallen asleep until long after it had happened. Smiling patiently, he carried his friend back to their quarters. He set him down in his bunk, and Nikolai stirred awake again, though just barely. He smiled and mumbled drowsily.

"Thank you."

"Don't tell anybody about it," Cecil joked.

Nikolai was already under again. He always seemed more worried when he was asleep.

For Cecil, such a slumber evaded him again tonight. He stayed awake reading a book, until at last, just at dawn, he fell into a shallow nap that brought him no relief from his racing thoughts.

- **to be continued**

Please let me know what you think and if this is worth continuing! Thanks. :D


	2. Of Sandwiches

I wasn't expecting such support early on, haha. Thanks so much everyone! It's really awesome to see some of my L4D2 readers, too. I only just recently discovered DA:O and I'm in love with it.

I don't really have a plan for this fic. I anticipate more Marvin and Cecil interaction in the next chapter. Please let me know what you think!

**Sashes, Sashes Everywhere**

About midway through the day, the new mage Marvin woke in the apprentice quarters. Cecil watched the immediate uproar; students cheering and congratulating him, his friend Peter dancing around him delightedly (the boy was a little… sprightly, to say the least).

The other Harrowing apprentice, a frail little girl named Dylan, was still asleep in her bunk and did not stir at the noise. It took some longer than others to recover, and Dylan had had a harder time than most. The templars would be watching her closely when she came to, because though she had passed the test, it had been a narrow miss. She would always be susceptible to demons.

Marvin goggled at the activity around him, still clearly affected by the lyrium he had been given and also his death-like sleep. He seemed minuscule in the impromptu horde, his hair afluff with sleep, his robes bagging off of him as he hunched defensively over himself. "No, no," Cecil heard him saying, "I really can't tell you. You know the rules. I can't tell you."

It wasn't Cecil's turn to speak. If Marvin seemed close to caving, a real templar would step in before he blurted out secrets of the Harrowing. Hector, the senior templar guarding the other end of the apprentice's quarters, seemed unconcerned. Cecil followed his lead.

Eventually, the clamor died down. Many apprentices had classes to attend to. Peter curled on the foot of Marvin's bed, and the two of them carried on for a while, talking and gesturing animatedly. For some reason, Peter seemed uncommonly fascinated with the concept of Marvin's new bed.

"I've seen the beds the mages sleep in," he said. "They're big enough to fit three people on!"

"I would hope I wouldn't have three people in my bed!" Marvin replied, laughing.

"Never say never, Marvin. I know you."

"You're not funny. It's not funny!" A red blush was creeping up Marvin's neck. "Most of those mages are so _old_ anyway."

"But not all. And soon I'll be among them." Peter waggled his eyebrows.

A flicker of seriousness passed over Marvin's face. He started chewing at his fingernail, a subconscious sign of his anxiousness. "I hope you do well on your Harrowing," he said. "Honestly."

"If you made it out all right, it can't be all that bad," Peter answered, waving a hand dismissively.

Marvin opened his mouth and then closed it with a snap. His brows pinched together in distress. Cecil saw him looking over in his direction – the templars were a constant presence, and Cecil felt the chilly, hateful stare coming from the tiny elf. No one had open forum here.

"I really can't talk about it," Marvin mumbled submissively.

"I understand," Peter said. "Really."

Marvin glanced in Cecil's direction again, and then a third time, his eyes widening. "Hey!" he cried, pointing. "It's you!"

Cecil blinked. Technically, they weren't supposed to interact with the mages unless absolutely necessary – they needed to appear almost inhuman in their finality. Being addressed directly, however, threw him off guard. "Me?" he answered dimly. "Well, would you look at that? It _is_ me. Good on you for noticing."

Shaking his head, Marvin leapt nimbly from his bunk. The vertigo hit him hard and he stumbled into a nearby chest, where he took a moment to collect himself.

"I guess I'm not all better yet," he said sheepishly. Peter came up and gently held his elbow. "Man! That takes something out of you… Maker's breath. Hang on." He bent over and rested his hands on his knees to breathe. "Head's spinning."

"You should lie back down," Peter said to him. "What's your business with that templar, anyway?"

Blue eyes darted up and locked onto Cecil's face. It was a familiar sensation, and Marvin smiled. "This is the one that caught me."

"Caught you?"

"I can't explain. I can stand on my own, Peter, let me go."

Reluctantly, Peter detached from his friend, but kept nearby just in case. Marvin stood on his own, albeit a little shakily, but he seemed pleased with the small accomplishment nonetheless. "Templar," he said, "what's your name?"

Cecil threw Hector a beseeching look across the room, unsure what to do. The senior templar only looked back at him blankly, clearly content to let the trainee struggle.

"Uh," Cecil said uncertainly. "Um, well…"

"Don't tell me you don't have one," Marvin said. "They don't strip names from the templars, do they?"

"You really shouldn't be speaking to me. You're supposed to respect us. I could… I could do something."

Peter ducked his head, mumbling, "We should do what he says, Marvin."

But Marvin was smiling, almost blissfully. "Really," he said. "You can tell me."

"It's Cecil. Why does it matter to you?"

"Thank you, Cecil."

"Yeah, okay. Go on and play now." Cecil felt awkward, his face heating up, and he shifted uncomfortably where he stood.

Nodding in approval, Marvin turned back to his friend. "I'm starving. Will you help me to the dining hall?"

"Hmm? Sure, of course." Peter, being human, easily hoisted Marvin into a piggy-back ride, and they took off cackling down the corridor. That lack of focus would not serve them well when it counted.

"Children," Hector muttered disapprovingly.

Cecil grunted in response, not wanting the other to know just how baffled he was inside.

oOo

After break, Cecil returned to guarding the apprentices' quarters to find Marvin's belongings gone. This wasn't a surprise, as it was customary to move them into the mage quarters as soon as possible after they awoke from their Harrowings. Peter was there again – for Andraste's sake, didn't the boy have any classes at all? – going through the last of his friend's things.

Hearing the sound of Cecil's armor, probably, his head snapped up. "Cecil!" he exclaimed, and smiled.

Cecil scowled. "You won't address me by name," he commanded. Secretly, he was impressed by the authority in his own voice, because he certainly didn't feel intimidating. If word got around that apprentices were calling him by his given name, however, there would be consequences.

A frown broke over Peter's face. He was not as pretty as Marvin (not a surprise… elves almost always won out in beauty contests), but the hard slope of his jaw and the penetrating seawater color of his eyes made him fair to look at. His dark hair made his pale skin and eyes stand out even more. Most apprentices were pale because they rarely left the tower. Some liked to roam about on the grounds, but they were few and far between.

Actually, he reminded Cecil vaguely of Nikolai.

Well, shit. Now he couldn't yell at him even if he wanted to.

"I didn't mean to be disrespectful," Peter said, backtracking. "I just… Well, I don't know what I was thinking, I… Sorry. I was just going to ask you if you've seen Marvin around."

"Why would I be keeping tabs on your midget friend?" Cecil sneered. "Keep him on a leash if you want to keep an eye on him."

"Fuck," Peter muttered. "Fine, okay."

Feeling accomplished, Cecil leaned back against the wall and resumed observing the near-empty room. It seemed like a waste of manpower to be watching the six or so teenagers wandering around in this room, but even one child left unchecked could succumb to the seduction of blood magic. And one rogue mage could mean one nasty outbreak.

As he folded up a periwinkle blanket that must have belonged to Marvin, Peter said quietly, "He made you sound like you were a much nicer person."

Cecil's first thought was that it was a little strange for Marvin to be discussing him when they'd only interacted for a few minutes. The second thought was that he had hurt Peter's feelings, again.

"To be fair," Cecil said carefully, "he didn't have a whole hell of a lot to go off of."

Peter's eyes flickered up, and he smirked; suddenly, Cecil felt like he was on the receiving end of a private joke. "Marvin has a talent for reading people right off the bat," he said. "Magic expresses itself in strange ways."

"Well, we can't be right all of the time, now can we?" Cecil replied.

The line of Peter's jaw tightened and he didn't respond. So _emotional_ for a would-be mage, honestly. Hopefully that wouldn't turn against him when it counted.

That thought turned Cecil's stomach cold, and he settled for letting his mind wander for a time. Marvin came back to collect the last of his things, laughing and chattering, but he barely registered to Cecil. He wondered what the weather was like outside; he hadn't been near a window since that morning. There had been dark birds circling the horizon, probably where some wolf or halla had died… Cecil wondered what those animals looked like in real life, had only read about them in books. Even the Chantry didn't allow them out to explore the Wilds, and because Cecil wasn't a full templar he hadn't yet had the chance to hunt down apostates in the forests. Nature was a mystery to him.

Oliver, a full templar, took over for Hector. Cecil had always been fond of Oliver, because he smiled. Very few templars smiled – not the ones that had been inducted, who took their jobs quite seriously.

And Oliver had also been a comfort, during those first few weeks of becoming accustomed to the tower. Cecil had panicked at the thought of spending his entire life in those stone walls, but Oliver had been a sympathetic ear during that difficult transition. He explained that the mages sometimes didn't realize that the templars were just as much of prisoners as they were, and somehow that thought soothed Cecil more than anything else.

He was trapped here, but he was not alone.

The only depressing bit was that he could never get married – but, men being men, the templars had a variety of ways of dealing with such loneliness.

Cecil wasn't sure he was quiet so lonely as to revert to _that_ just yet, however. He had lasted his entire life in celibacy, and he imagined it wouldn't kill him to live out the rest of his life in just the same manner.

"Cecil?"

Snapping out of his thoughts, Cecil looked around for the person addressing him. Oliver was giving him a disapproving look from across the room.

"Really?"

"What?" Cecil asked, though he knew plenty well what he had done.

"One of these days a maleficar will dance naked in front of you, steal your sword, and blow up the tower – and still you'll stand there daydreaming and not even notice."

"If the naked maleficar happened to be ugly, I guess I'd count myself lucky," Cecil deadpanned, and was pleased to hear Oliver laugh in return.

"What if it's a pretty one, though?" Oliver asked. Now Cecil could tell that he was just pulling his leg, the twisted bastard.

"Boy or girl?"

"Oh, hell then." But Oliver was smirking.

He was a homosexual. It wasn't something that he had said out loud, or anything, but Cecil had a sense of it. It was a strange thing to know about another person.

Cecil had half a mind to be disgusted by him, really, but he couldn't bring himself to. Not after everything Oliver had done for him.

"It was a joke," Cecil said.

"No, I know. You think you're funny."

"I am funny," Cecil muttered, but he was put back in his place for now.

Just then, Marvin came into the apprentices' quarters. It was striking, suddenly, how very short he was; he seemed like a child padding about in those new mage's robes. They were sewn for an adult elf of approximately his size, but still they puddled a little at his feet. He probably still had another two inches left to grow, if Cecil's approximation of his age was correct.

He was barefoot. The sound of his little feet hitting the stone was distinct. Cecil hated the thought of people going barefoot; the floor was _cold_, for the Maker's sake!

Though he moved with some sense of balance, the blank look on Marvin's face told Cecil that he was still somewhat stunned by this abrupt transition in his life – and, even more so, the act of the Harrowing itself. All of the mages were the same for a week so, astonished at the fact that they had survived, frightened of the future, horrified by the reality that they had seen. Most of them were young enough to bounce back relatively unharmed, however, and Marvin had just the youthful pep to pull out without any lasting scars.

"Hey," Oliver called, and Marvin looked about blindly before finally spotting him.

"Oh," he said quietly.

"You don't belong here. You're not an apprentice anymore. For safety reasons, I'd really rather you leave," Oliver told him. Though his tone was gentle, perhaps even friendly, something about his voice made it very clear that he was not to be argued with.

"I'm really sorry," Marvin said. "I just wanted to take it in one last time, you know?"

"Fine, then. That's all right."

Cecil frowned. It wasn't as if Marvin would never see the apprentice quarters again. In a few years, when he had his own underling, he would probably visit frequently; but at the same time, he understood. It wasn't that he was experiencing this room for the last time… rather, it was the last time he would view it and think of it as his own.

Marvin paced each row of bunks, pausing at his own for an almost obscenely long time. His brows were pitched together in deep contemplation. He ran his fingers over the bare mattress and then, sighing, cupped underneath it to lift it. Beneath the mattress was a note, Cecil was surprised to see; Marvin collected it and put it in his shirt, against his heart.

From his silence, it was obvious that Oliver didn't seem to care about this, so Cecil did not speak up.

After a few more moments of lingering, Marvin turned back to the templars and turned on a brilliant smile. "Thank you," he said.

It occurred to Cecil that he hadn't seen Marvin smile before.

"Begone with you, then," Oliver drawled.

"Very well."

As Marvin passed by, he threw Cecil an uncertain smile. No, not uncertain – shy.

Blue. Yes, his eyes were blue.

It was a good thing that Avery came to relieve Cecil when he did. The beginnings of a stomach ache were roaring about in Cecil's gut, and all he wanted to do was lay down and go to sleep.

oOo

"I saw an apprentice who looks almost just like you," Cecil said conversationally over dinner.

Nikolai cocked an eyebrow but didn't respond. He nibbled around the crust of his sandwich like a mouse before delving into its center, where the "real flavor" was.

"His name is Peter. Do you know him?"

"Don't be silly," Nikolai said.

Unsure if this was a denial or an affirmation, Cecil blinked at him. "Well, he's about your height, you shorty."

"Everyone is short to you, Cecil," Nikolai replied patiently. "You're like a bear."

"And his hair is dark. And he sort of has your… features."

"So every brunette on the planet who could pass for a female looks like me now?"

"I never said you could pass for a female, why would you even go there?"

Nikolai smirked and laid out on the cot, resting his legs on Cecil's lap. Once, a long time ago, Cecil would have pushed those legs away, but now he bore the invasion of his personal space with a dry grin. The smug, almost cat-like look on Nikolai's face gave him away as he asked in a sing-song voice, "Do you fancy him? Is that it?"

"Of fucking course not."

"Hmm? What color are his eyes?"

"What a pointless question. Damn it, Nikolai."

Nikolai laughed his high, blithe laugh. "Don't get defensive, love, I was only joking!"

"I'm not your love, and it wasn't funny."

Nikolai rolled his eyes animatedly. Brown, they were brown.

"Your eyes are brown," Cecil said, just to prove a point. "I notice eye colors all of the time."

The corners of Nikolai's mouth quirked up, and he pressed his lips together to stop another bout of laughter from leaking out. "Forgive me. I overstepped my bounds," he said, with painful sarcasm.

Compared to Cecil, who was a fair Ferelden from head to toe, Nikolai was utterly dark. His skin was olive-toned, even without sunlight, and for a while Cecil had honestly believed that he must have come from savage ancestry before Nikolai explained about the origins of his people. There were other dark Fereldens, but they often came from some past strain of Qunari ancestry, or some other people even less civilized than that. The Grey Warden Duncan had been one of these. At least, so Cecil had been taught by the Chantry.

Seeing that he had actually caused some unrest in Cecil's mind, Nikolai said quietly, "Eat your soup."

Cecil obeyed. "He's like, twelve anyway," he mumbled. "Seriously. As if."

Nikolai muttered a prayer for him. It took every ounce of Cecil's strength not to feel offended.

**- to be continued  
**


	3. Of Influenza

Here's another chapter for your lovelies! I usually have something enlightened to say but I can't come up with anything, haha. Next chapter is already halfway done, so that should be coming along soon... Please let me know what you think! :D You guys are awesome.

**Sashes, Sashes Everywhere**

The next week, Cecil caught a terrible cold. It was enough to put him off of the more strenuous, focus-oriented training and duties such as patrolling and the dispelling of magical effects. Though the rest was much-needed, the boredom drove Cecil nearly mad. He hated having nothing to do, and, worse than that, he hated feeling like he was insufficient for his tasks. Approval from the templars was important to him, and it was difficult to be approved of when he was lying in bed like a two-year-old with a tummy ache.

Of course, the precautions made perfect sense. It wouldn't do for Cecil to catch something truly dangerous, like pneumonia. In the closed-in, poorly-aired tower, lung infections spread like wildfire.

Normally a mild illness like this could be cured with a quick shot of magic, if he truly wanted to get back to work in short order. However, it was never a wise idea to let a mage do anything with a templar, magical or otherwise – for the sake of safety. A templar doing the bidding of a blood mage was just as dangerous as the blood mage himself.

As it was, when Cecil's voice came back just enough for him to beg, he was allowed to sit outside the mage's quarters as a guard.

Guarding mages was one of the easiest jobs possible. Not many fully-fledged mages succumbed to blood magic without sufficient warning, because of their dedicated training and their success in the task of the Harrowing. Most mages were reserved and sat around studying or drinking tea or bossing around their acolytes, whatever.

As he sat on a trunk in the commons area, wiping his nose every few seconds with a disgusting rag, Cecil wondered if he would be any less bored staying in bed, after all.

An elderly mage and his understudy were practicing a game of chess without using their hands, laughing and chattering companionably. Another young mage was sitting in a booth eating her lunch and pouring over some dusty-looking scroll from the library. Two mages fresh out of their Harrowings were sitting on the floor playing some complicated guessing game with sticks.

"Theo!" wailed the first. "That's cheating!"

"It is _not_," the one called Theo replied shortly. "The rules clearly state that keeping it in neither hand is acceptable, too."

"Only in the event of a tie, you bloody liar."

"Maker's breath, if it's such an issue, I'll just re-shuffle. Will that suit you, you baby?"

"No! You've been well cheating this whole time, haven't you? I knew something was wrong when I kept losing!"

Isaac, the templar supervising alongside Cecil, shook his head and mumbled something about mages being more trouble than their keep was worth. He was a classic templar, that one, and Cecil didn't care for him at all. At least he was tolerant of Cecil's pathetic sniffling, though, and even once brought him some hot tea for his throat.

Cecil was content to watch the argument unfold in front of him, because it took too much effort to do much else. Hopefully, Hector or even Avery would come along and relieve Isaac. Even Trainer Erwin would be better company, but he was busy with lessons this time of day.

Just when it seemed that the templars might actually have to step in, Marvin appeared on the scene. He was oblivious, of course, singing to himself in something which might have been Elvish, but his abrupt presence distracted Theo from the testicle-freezing spell he had been threatening to fire up (did that count as blood magic? Apparently not, since Isaac didn't react).

"Marvin!" cried the first mage. "Theo's a cheat!"

Marvin stared at them for a moment, processing the situation. He seemed to do that often; snap decisions were apparently not part of his nature. "Isn't he always?" he replied with a faint smile.

That smile, again. It was rare, difficult to coax out. Cecil wondered why, and then decided that his fever was too intense for any deeper thought.

"It's not my fault Emile doesn't know the rules of the game," Theo said in his own defense.

"We play it differently in Orlais," Emile mumbled.

"The Chantry in Orlais let you gamble?" Marvin asked, eyes going wide.

"Yes," Emile replied, a grin spreading over his features. "We are not so serious in our piety as you Fereldens… let me explain, though I can't remember much. I was seven when they took me away… Let me see…"

At this point, Cecil let his senses fuzz over a while. The conversation was pleasing to listen to without registering the words, the sound of voices swelling and waning in a constant rhythm like waves on a beach.

"Are you okay?"

The familiar question stirred Cecil out of his haze. It was either the fever or the poultice he had taken for it that was making his senses dull out like this, because even though Marvin was peering directly into his face, his eyes didn't register with their usual brilliance. They seemed faded, gray, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

"Of course I'm fine," Cecil slurred irritably, squinting to bring those eyes back into focus. "How is that any of your business, anyway, mage?"

"Do you remember me?" Marvin asked.

"There's a million elf mages, blondie," Cecil said, not really answering the question.

A line crinkled just above Marvin's nose. His bluff had been called. _Maker_, how such a tiny gesture could be intimidating, from someone who was hardly five feet tall no less, was beyond Cecil's comprehension.

"I was only asking if you felt well," he said. "You were looking kind of green."

"If you're wondering, I have a deadly disease. And now you're infected." Cecil breathed out loudly through his mouth, and Marvin recoiled, his nose scrunching further.

"Your breath is awful!" he exclaimed, and for some reason this struck Cecil has uproariously funny.

He laughed, and Marvin smiled uncomfortably. "That's what happens when you're sick," Cecil told him.

"You're not really infectious, are you?"

Cecil opened his mouth to respond when Isaac spoke up. "Don't be heckling the templars, child. Return to your studies."

Marvin chewed on his lower lip and nodded fervently in acquiescence. "I'm sorry, ser," he mumbled. "Sorry." He tossed Cecil another probing look.

"We can talk later," Cecil told him, mostly just to see the look of unfettered rage that flashed through Isaac's eyes.

At the same time, Marvin's face lit up like the sun. "Really?" he asked. "I'd like that."

"Go on," Isaac barked. "You've no business here."

"Come on, Marvin," the mage Theo said, tugging on Marvin's sleeve. "Let's go talk to Ren. She's bound to have something interesting to give us today. Those Tranquils always seem to know just what we're looking for."

"I already got in trouble for reading that karma sutra book you and Peter _insisted_ was an educational wonder," Marvin said reluctantly.

"That was one time, and it was a joke."

"I'm scarred for life!"

"Come on. I promise it won't happen again."

"Unless you'd like it to," Emile tossed in for good measure, oozing every bit of his Orlesian charm.

The three of them left together, chatting and bickering. They weren't so different from the templar trainees, really, Cecil thought. Though, unlike templars, they didn't get sticks up their asses the minute they graduated.

Isaac was giving him an icy stare. Cecil sneezed into his rag and pretended to fall asleep.

oOo

For the sake of containing his germ spread, Cecil was placed in the infirmary for a short time. This was mostly because his sinuses were bleeding. Also because his fever was so intense that he had hallucinated about demons dancing in fire and passed out in the baths. _That_ was awkward, as the last thing he saw was a faceful of Avery's crotch. Oh well, such was life; if people could control where they fainted, there wouldn't be much fun in the practice after all.

The most surprising thing about Cecil's quarantine was that people actually visited him. Nikolai stopped by every day with sugar candies. He had befriended Sawyer, the messenger who imported all of the ingredients for cooking to the tower, and had bribed her into bringing him special gifts from the mainland. Sometimes Cecil would walk in on him snacking on chocolates, or bananas (a delicacy for the templars here, since they came from so far away and had such a short shelf life).

Israel came to see him, but she wasn't the emotional sort. She didn't say much, and her consolations were stilted. Still, Cecil appreciated the effort. She even brought him a sandwich once, though it had cheese in it and had to be tossed out because of his fever. Aside from her, Trainer Ethan and Oliver both paid him visits. Oliver told him stories until he fell asleep, and Cecil found that it was the most peaceful sleep he'd experienced in a long while.

Simon and Percy, two other templars, stopped by as well. It was less of a social visit, however, and more a reminder that he had a test on the Chant of Light as soon as he was well. As if he hadn't had the whole thing memorized by the time he was eight years old. Still, it was a way of reinforcing faith – both in the Maker and in the Chantry itself.

Cecil's condition steadily worsened, which he found to be more obnoxious than frightening. Laying in bed was about the most boring thing on the planet. The nurse informed him over and over that he was going to be fine, that this was just a particularly nasty strand of influenza, but her assurances did little to inspire him. Sleeping most of the time didn't help much, either.

On the third day, Nikolai stopped by at his usual time to talk Cecil's ear off. "Hello, my beloved friend," he twittered, leaping onto the foot of Cecil's bed and bouncing him a foot high. For someone who appeared so slim at first, Nikolai had quite a bit of understated muscle in him, which translated directly into mass.

"Ouch!" Cecil moaned. "Maker's breath, fuck, my body…"

"Poor darling," Nikolai cooed, though there was a distinct lack of sincerity in his voice. "I've been praying for you, you know. You're starting to worry me."

"I'm fine. Quit being such a girl about it."

Nikolai stuck out his tongue and flopped back, hanging his feet off of the edge of the bed. "I'm getting so bored without you there with me, Cecil," he said conversationally. "I've tried reading about Andraste, but I already know the story so well and it's just not the same."

"Are you saying I'm better company than the Maker?" Cecil teased.

All at once, Nikolai blanched. "That's not funny," he said softly.

"Sorry, sorry. I was just kidding." Cecil held his rag up to his mouth and coughed into it, turning over so that he could bring everything up properly. Nikolai made a disgusted, dismayed sort of noise and shook his head.

"Awful," he said, with real sympathy this time. "Just awful."

Cecil shook his head. "My sister caught something like this once, when we were very little," he snuffled. "I don't remember much of it, because I was taken away shortly after… But she got worse before she got better. I just have to purge my system."

"At least you've been doused in cold water each day," Nikolai remarked. "That seems to be cleansing your spirit. You know that the Maker only deals punishments deserved."

"My faith has been weak lately," Cecil admitted. The words spilled out of him without his consent. Something about Nikolai's unwavering piety made Cecil hopelessly inadequate. He often posed as Cecil's moral center, and also an indirect confessionary. At first, it had been strange expressing his religious crises to a friend three years younger than him, but now it came as a second nature, now almost subconscious.

Nikolai smiled at him comfortingly. "We all face our trials," he said. "We all come out the stronger from them. Holes in your spirituality can easily be mended with some hard work and prayer. You know that."

"I wouldn't be here otherwise," Cecil agreed.

The door to the infirmary opened. The drawn out squeal of its hinges signaled that the intruder was reluctant, slowly pushing the door open instead of swinging it wide like the other templars had done.

Cecil blinked a few times to clear the fog that had invaded his vision, and was surprised to see Marvin cowering in the doorway.

"Look, Cecil," Nikolai said. "It's that little elf mage you were telling me about."

"You were talking about me?" Marvin asked. His eyes were like saucers. If Cecil could trust his fever-addled brain (which he couldn't), it almost looked as if his pointed ears had perked.

"No, I fucking wasn't," Cecil snapped. "Nikolai likes to spread embarrassing rumors about me because he thinks he's cute."

"I _am_ cute," Nikolai replied without missing a beat. He turned to Marvin and said in a conspiratorial sort of way, "Aren't I cute?"

"Of course you are," Marvin said immediately. A brilliant blush was invading his face.

"I like this one." Nikolai grinned smugly. "See that? He knows just what to say."

"Nikki," Cecil groaned, already battling back a headache caused expressly by frustration.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to agitate you in your delicate condition."

A tiny laugh burst from Marvin's mouth, and he covered his lips with his hands to stop the rest from coming.

"What do you want?" Cecil growled, and immediately Marvin's mirth was gone. He ducked his head, dragging the toe of one foot back and forth over the floor.

"I just wanted to see how you were feeling," he said.

"As you can see, I'm just peachy."

"Oh, Cecil," Nikolai sighed. "No social grace at all." He turned to Marvin and turned on his beatific smile. "Little elf, you know he actually appreciates the visit. He's just stern. You know how it is."

"I know," Marvin murmured. He made a broad, sweeping gesture with his arms. "I sensed it."

"Ah." Nikolai's smile faded.

"I mean, I don't know. Peter says I have a gift. Did you know that his Harrowing is next week?"

"I care why?" Cecil replied snidely.

"Your fever is making you grouchier than normal."

"I'm always this grouchy. Don't be stupid."

"Anyway," Marvin said, taking a deep breath as if to calm himself down, "I just came to check on you, since you're my friend. Feel well soon. Okay, goodbye." With that, he spun around on his heels and scuttled out. He moved like a small animal and was gone before Cecil had time to react.

"I'm not his friend," he said to Nikolai immediately, feeling his cheeks heat up. "I'm not. I hardly even know him."

"This is a scandal, now, isn't it?" Nikolai purred. That grin breaking over his face was pure evil and sent chills down Cecil's spine. "You know that's against the rules, don't you? If you don't set him straight, I'll have to report you."

"I've tried to set him straight, honest! The most determined midget I've ever seen."

"Maybe he likes you," Nikolai joked.

Cecil didn't laugh. After that, there was only a dull area of silence, and then sleep; when he opened his eyes, his friend was gone, and he was alone.

oOo

After the second week, Cecil's symptoms finally began to subside. It was a relief, not just for him but for every inhabitant in the tower, that he didn't have something highly contagious. If every templar, every mage, and every guardsman caught whatever Cecil had had, it would have shut down operation for quite a long time.

As he returned to his own bed at long last, ignoring Percy's suggestive comments about his sleeping gown (it was short on him because it was standard-sized, and Cecil had always been unusually tall), Trainer Ethan approached him from the Trainers' quarters. Nikolai, who was sprawled across Cecil's bed as if he owned it, whistled in greeting.

"Feeling better, are we, Cecil?" Trainer Ethan asked.

"Yes, ser. Much better, ser," Cecil replied. "I mean, my sinuses are still backed up and everything… But I can stomach solid food now."

"That's good to hear, kiddo. That means you can get right back to your training."

"Aww, fuck. Really?"

"Really. Really, seriously. You're getting close to the entry period, you know that, don't you?"

Cecil didn't answer. The thought of being an actual templar, finally, made his blood run cold. He was torn between excitement and revulsion. He could leave if he wanted to, of course; all he would have to do was denounce Andraste to the Master Trainer's face and that would be the end of it. And yet, this was all he had ever known, all he was good at, all he knew how to do.

"We'll put you and Nikolai in for another Harrowing, if you don't distract each other," Trainer Ethan continued, as if Cecil's face hadn't lost three shades of color. "If you do well enough, we'll start the testing for you, Cecil. How's that?"

"Fine," Cecil croaked. "That's fine."

"Good, now get some rest. You'll need it. This Peter kid looks like the type to carry on for a while in the Fade."

Peter's Harrowing. Cecil had forgotten.

"I'll say a prayer for him," Nikolai whispered, as if reading his thoughts. He crawled down onto the floor and knelt there on the stone. He probably wanted Cecil to join him, and yet he could not. He could not make himself.

- **to be continued**


	4. Of Success

Next chapter's up quick! It's a change of pace... I hope you guys like it. It's hard to feel motivated when I see how many people are reading the new chapters versus how many people are responding.

**AxBxR**, thanks for being such a loyal reader. I always look forward to your feedback because it's so detailed and animated. You're rad. :D

**Sashes, Sashes Everywhere**

Trainer Ethan did nothing to soften the blow when he informed Cecil that, if this Harrowing went well, there were high odds that Cecil would be inducted as an actual templar. As a result, Cecil's nerves were through the roof for the rest of the day, so much so that he could hardly eat his breakfast.

Peter's Harrowing came very early in the morning, just after the prayer session for the templars. Cecil's hands were trembling so badly that Nikolai had to help him, and there are few things more awkward than having your best friend tie your waist-sash, hands knotting centimeters above your groin. Nikolai talked all the while he was doing it, focused on the action of tying the complex knot, and then looking up into Cecil's face with that insufferable smile.

In a lot of ways, he was like the mother Cecil had never had. An insult to Nikolai's masculinity, but even Nikolai himself wouldn't deny that he had an air of gentleness about him.

"This apprentice is the one that you said looked like me, isn't it?" Nikolai asked as they entered the Harrowing chamber.

Probably Peter was still prepping, because he wasn't there yet. First Enchanter Francis was pacing the length of the floor, cleansing it with murmured spells. Allowing any lingering spirits to remain in the room might cost a student success at such a vulnerable time in their development. At the time of the Harrowing, they were totally exposed to outside influence, their bodies a shell for any wandering demon. Apprentices had been lost in the Fade for hours this way, sometimes an eternity if the abomination had to be put down with blades.

"Yes, he looks like you," Cecil said absent-mindedly. "But his eyes are green."

"Again with the eyes."

"Shut up." Cecil took his place at the pedestal, rolling his shoulders to ease the weight of his armor.

Snickering, Nikolai pulled up between him and Trainer Wesley.

"This is a serious matter," Trainer Wesley barked immediately. "Your lack of focus endangers lives."

"Sorry, ser," Nikolai said softly.

The silence carried for a few more moments before the door swung open and a senior mage appeared with Peter in tow. The poor kid was trembling from head to foot, the rims of his eyes red from holding back a good cry. His hands twisted in his sash until the senior mage gently laid a hand on his shoulder and murmured some encouraging words to him. Nodding, utterly pale, Peter came up to the pedestal.

He spotted Cecil, and a watery smile broke over his face. Bloodshot, his eyes were stunning.

"Are you ready?" First Enchanter Francis asked, more out of obligation than actual concern. It wasn't as though Peter had a choice in the matter.

Peter genuinely looked like he intended to form words, but all that came out was a strangled hiccup.

"You'll need to remain calm if you do not want to fail," Francis reminded him. "I will tell you now what you must do."

After a bit of explanation and coaxing, Peter placed his hands on the pedestal and bowed his head. Cecil glanced uneasily at Nikolai, who offered him a comforting smile in return.

It took a while for Peter to go under. Some slipped into the trance more easily than others. After several long minutes, his shaking began to lessen and eventually stopped. His eyelids fluttered and then settled into a half-open, glazed stare before finally sliding closed. For a while, though, it was clear that he wasn't entirely under yet – his breathing was ragged, coming in shallow gasps, as if he was fighting the process of sleep. Then, his lips slackened and his breathing slowed, deepened, until it seemed he was no longer drawing breath. Finally, the line of tension in his shoulders sagged, his fingers curling on the lip of the pedestal, and he was gone.

First Enchanter Francis nodded in approval and stepped away. So began the wait, Cecil's least favorite part. They stood around and stared at the boy's lifeless body, waiting for any subtle change, and for a long time there was none. Peter's usually expressive face was utterly serene, his eyes flicking back and forth beneath their lids, all normal signs – until, quietly, he moaned.

The sound would not have startled Cecil if the room hadn't been so silent up until that point. Instantly, a crinkle of concern appeared between the First Enchanter's eyebrows.

Sometimes students might struggle before ultimately being victorious. It was actually the more common route. It still didn't make the wait any easier, however, because any trouble was bad trouble.

After that, there was nothing. Twenty minutes passed uneventfully. The apprentice was utterly still, as if dead, his dark bangs fanning to mask part of his face. Just as Cecil started to relax once more, it started again.

Very quickly, Peter started to come to. He was barely forty minutes into his Harrowing, but they had ended speedily before. His fingernails dug against the pedestal, scratching down its flawless stone surface. His breathing became audible again, stuttering and skipping like a stone flung across the surface of a pond.

Nikolai shifted uneasily, one hand resting at the hilt of his weapon. He wasn't bloodthirsty, not like Douglas, but he felt it was his spiritual duty to be on guard in cases like this. Cecil's mouth abruptly turned dry.

Peter's brows pitched together and he made a soft sound of discomfort, his shoulders hunching as he came closer to the surface of consciousness. Breath came in harsh gasps and then, suddenly, stopped, as if a hand had closed around his throat. All color drained from his face completely.

First Enchanter Francis pursed his lips together and shook his head, and though the reality was made solid now, Cecil could not believe it. He and Nikolai hesitated, and then it was too late.

All at once, Peter broke the surface with a shriek, his jaw ripping open. He released the pedestal and staggered backwards, an unearthly scream roaring from somewhere deep inside of him. His eyes were wild, but utterly blank, fogged with the perception of someone other than himself. As Cecil watched, he hunched over on himself; over his screams there was the sound of something ripping, flesh and then fabric. It was changing before their very eyes.

The demon would still be disoriented yet, not used to this feeble human body, but once it had its bearings – and that wouldn't take long – it could kill everyone in the tower without much problem. Peter's magic was strong, after all, as was the magic of all mages submitting to this test. The abomination lunged blindly about, scrabbling on hands and knees; the double-toned sounds of its shrieking consumed Cecil's every sense.

"Do it!" Trainer Wesley roared into Cecil's ear, and his training clicked into place.

Sweeping around the pedestal, Cecil drew his sword and plunged blindly. The first strike sank into the boy's thigh, where it would do little damage. Peter – the body of Peter – squealed and fell to the floor, where it began to spasm and shake. It began to gibber in something that was not English, not any language Cecil had heard before. It may have been some incantation, but it had no time to finish it; Cecil wrenched his blade free and drove it now between those staring seawater eyes.

The sound of Peter's screaming filled the room as the demon receded, echoing a million times from the ceilings and walls like an otherworldly howl; it filled Cecil's mind, reverberated there, louder than any sound he'd heard before. It pitched up and up without ending. For a split second, consciousness and fear came back into that mage's young face, and then the blade pierced through bone and flesh and there was nothing; blood bubbled up from the gap and spilling on the floor.

The screaming stopped. It rang in echoes until it stayed only in Cecil's ears.

Gasping for breath, feeling the warm spatter of blood on his hands and face, Cecil retched dryly and tugged weakly at his sword. It stuck, drawing Peter's limp body off of the floor. Almost believing it to be alive again, Cecil shrieked and braced a boot against Peter's chest, jerking hard until the blade came loose so suddenly that he fell back onto the floor.

"_No_, dammit! No, no, _no_!"

Nikolai hurried over to his side, touching Cecil's face, using the hem of his sash to wipe away the blood there. "There, there," he said gently. "It's over, it's all right."

"I killed him," Cecil blurted, and Nikolai's eyes dropped. His mouth trembled before firming into a straight line.

"No, no you didn't," he said. "You did a good thing."

"Didn't you hear him screaming?" Cecil croaked. His throat felt as if it had closed up on itself. "He _looked_ at me, Nikki, oh _Maker_, _fuck_, I killed him! He _looked_ at me!"

"That wasn't Peter anymore," Nikolai murmured. "Oh, Cecil, don't you see? He would have killed us."

"He was a good kid, he d-didn't deserve… Fuck, get off of me, just… _Maker_." Cecil shoved Nikolai away and stumbled to his feet. The room tipped dangerously, overcorrected and then righted itself, making his head spin.

"You did a good thing," Nikolai insisted. "He was an abomination, Cecil."

"Then why didn't _you_ kill him?"

The words ripped from Cecil's throat without his meaning for them to. The stunned look on Nikolai's face told him that they had been as harsh as he had secretly hoped.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I… sorry. I didn't mean… It's just, I've seen him, you know? Alive a-and…"

"He was susceptible," First Enchanter Francis said softly, though there was pain in his eyes. "Always emotional, with poor focus. But we believed him strong enough to pass. If we had not, we would have made him a Tranquil."

"Well, he's dead now," Cecil whispered. "So I guess the whole argument is moot."

"Yes, well… That's unfortunate," Trainer Wesley mumbled. "Let's leave. The area must be cleansed."

"Yes," Nikolai agreed. "Yes, please."

Cecil was certain that he had followed them out, but he could not remember it. As he walked back to the training room, his movements felt slowed, the air around him heavy, as if he were breathing underwater.

oOo

When Cecil became aware again, he was laying in bed. He dragged himself from the sluggish undercurrents of sleep, feeling distinctly ill, and sat up.

"There you are," Nikolai said, appearing at the foot of Cecil's bed. He smiled thinly. "How are you feeling, champion?"

"Sick," Cecil replied.

"Hmm. Yes, the mages said you were exposed to the taint, or something. Nothing a little dispelling of magic couldn't fix, of course. All better now!"

Nikolai's chipper attitude grated on Cecil's nerves. Still, yelling at his best friend wasn't going to solve matters. After all, Nikolai was only trying to help, even if he was incredibly oblivious at times.

"Israel was looking for you," Nikolai continued. "Do you remember coming to bed at all? No? I didn't think so. You looked… Well, you looked awful. I didn't know you were so attached to that apprentice."

"I wasn't, I… I don't know what happened. I shouldn't have been affected like that."

"No, you shouldn't have. But I'm proud of you for allowing the Maker to guide your sword."

"I'm so _pleased_ that you are proud of me," Cecil sniped, and Nikolai's smile slipped off like an accessory. He was still hurt over what Cecil had said to him in the Harrowing chamber, probably. He held grudges like that often.

"Do you want me to call her in here?"

"What? No. I don't know… Fine. Go ahead."

Quietly, Nikolai unwound himself and padded away. After a few minutes, Israel appeared. She was not in armor, a surprise, but instead in her smallclothes. When she saw him, the already irritable look on her face bloomed into genuine rage.

"What the fuck were you thinking, huh?" she boomed the moment she reached him. Before he even had a chance to reply, her hand whipped out and smote him hard, smacking him upside the head.

"Ouch!" he yelped. "Maker's breath, Israel! What the _hell_?"

"Did you seriously have a meltdown in front of _Trainer Wesley_? Are you damaged, or just an idiot? You scared Nikolai half to death, never mind _me_, and now people are starting to call you soft-boiled. I can't even… You realize your entire reputation is on the line here."

"It wasn't a meltdown. It was only like five seconds. I was in shock."

"You've killed abominations before. I don't see what the problem is."

"I knew this kid," Cecil said, and knew the minute the words were out of his mouth that he shouldn't have mentioned it.

"You've been fraternizing with the apprentices?" Israel gasped. Her eyebrows shot towards the ceiling. "You're fucking pulling my leg."

"No, I… No, I wasn't fraternizing, I – he just wouldn't leave me alone. Him and that Marvin kid, you know…"

"You should have said something. You could have jeopardized the whole tower by being too emotionally attached. That wasn't the apprentice you killed, you know. That kid is gone. It was a demon."

"I know that. You think I don't know that?" Cecil snapped. "Fuck, it isn't as if I didn't react fast enough. Nikolai didn't do a goddamn thing. But when the demon let up, Israel… I saw his face, I… He came back, for just a second, and he _saw_ me kill him."

Frowning, Israel rubbed a pressure point at her temple, as if this conversation was giving her a headache. "Mmm, maybe you should talk to the nurse again."

"I don't need a nurse."

"Then you need to speak to the grand cleric, or the revered mother even. Someone to help you sort out this crisis of faith."

Cecil gaped. "I'm not having… You can't seriously think I -? _I'm not_."

"Fine," she said, making a cutting motion through the air. "Fine, okay. I'm not going to argue. I didn't even come in for that, anyway."

"No?" Cecil snarled. "You mean you didn't make this mass exodus to slice apart my manhood?"

"No, but that's not a bad plan," she replied, and he was relieved to see a grin appear on her slight face. "I came to tell you that you'll be inducted tomorrow. Trainer Wesley says you've passed your test."

"What test?" Cecil asked. The punch in the gut was belated, because it took a moment to register. Then all of the wind vanished from his lungs and he gaped dumbly up at his friend. "I'm going to be a templar?" he squeaked.

"It would seem so," she said. She reached out and ruffled his hair affectionately. "There, now, do you feel better?"

"What about me?" Nikolai asked. "Did he say anything about me?"

"I asked about you. He… He said you froze up. It was a disappointment. I'm sorry."

"Okay," Nikolai murmured. His voice went a little hoarse. "Yeah, okay. I see now."

"Right. I'm sorry."

"No, I… I understand."

Cecil was lost in his thoughts. All of this time he had been balancing over the precipice of commitment, unsure if he should dive in, and now suddenly it was as if he had been pushed; and now he was falling, falling, on and on.

What about Marvin? He would ask about his friend. Of course he would. He would likely hunt Cecil down for answers.

Of course, they had been schooled on what to tell mages if they asked about their comrades after Harrowings – or, rather, what _not_ to say. They weren't supposed to let the mages know anything. They didn't need more reasons for there to be a mutiny in the tower, and hearing that their young ones were being killed for failure might tip that scale. It wasn't as if anyone had a choice, but mages were irrational – some of them didn't even follow Andraste's teachings.

Above any of that, however, Cecil was surprised to find that he was most afraid of seeing the pain on Marvin's face. That feeling was the most confusing of all.

**- to be continued**

Should I write a oneshot ZevranXmWarden story?**  
**


	5. Of Saltwater

I'm really sorry that this update came so late, guys. Your feedback was wonderful and I've not lost my love for this story. I just got a job, however, so writing is taking some time management skills I don't yet have, haha. The next update should come much sooner! Thanks, and please let me know what you think.

**Sashes, Sashes Everywhere**

Luckily, Nikolai's reaction to Peter's Harrowing did not cost him another year of training. He would have another test soon, which he would hopefully pass. Another failure would not be tolerated – the last thing the Chantry needed was a templar who froze up in the face of an apostate.

The next few days were hazy for Cecil. So many things happened all at once that he quite lost track of time until it was nearly a week later - or, more likely, it was his first dose of lyrium that had done that.

By the end of the week, he had been made a full templar, moved into the templar quarters, given a new series of rounds to learn, and he also watched Israel and Simon graduate with flying colors. Though it was good to be amongst his friends in this unfamiliar environment, they all knew, inexplicably, that this was not a time for fun and laughter anymore. Things were serious now, and lives depended on their vigilance.

While the mages were moved into rooms specifically designed for their comfort (upset mages were more likely to turn to exotic means of filling the void… and those means might result in blood magic), the templars faced a different reality. Distraction was an unnecessary risk, and so the communal quarters were replaced with stark, cramped bedrooms, shared between two to four templars each. Cecil was roomed with Simon, a pale-faced boy with tired brown eyes and who luckily did not speak often, except when he was praying.

Life was more or less the same for Cecil after the initial settling period. He still had set mealtimes, set tasks throughout the day, and so on. He did not feel the same protective urge towards these mages as he had towards the apprentices, but that was a minor thing, uncomfortable but easy to dismiss.

It was a weekend when Cecil rolled out of bed for breakfast in the mess hall. The Overseer saw him awake and approached with his morning dose of lyrium. Templars weren't allowed their own stash of the medicine, because too many would drink themselves to death; the Overseer himself was only allowed one vial at a time, and would have to return to the storage counter for another dose, so that he would not become a target for assault.

Cecil stared blankly at the clear flask for a while. "Seymour," he began reluctantly, but the Overseer shook his head sharply.

"You'll drink it."

"You going to pin me down and pour it down my throat?" Cecil challenged.

Seymour sighed, sweeping his free hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Not today, kid," he said wanly. "You'll learn to like it soon enough, I promise."

Pursing his lips together, Cecil reached out and took the flask. He pinched his nose and knocked back the potion in two quick gulps, and the effect was immediate.

The stuff was thick and painfully bittersweet, like a mixture strained from berries. It left a sort of mineral aftertaste, like river water, and the dueling effects clung to Cecil's tongue and the back of his throat. He gagged dryly, feeling it slither down into his stomach, where it sat like ice. There was a punch of clarity to his sinuses, as if he had inhaled smelling salts, and his eyes watered, stinging. A milky, swirling sense of contentedness washed over him, and then nothing but stupidity and confusion.

It would clear in the next two minutes, but for now Cecil had to sit and battle a sense of vertigo that was nearly overwhelming.

"How are you feeling?" Seymour asked him patiently.

Rocking from side to side to keep the world balanced, Cecil replied, "Purple."

"Ah." The Overseer frowned. "I see." He marked this down in his pad.

Little bursts of colored lights sparked in the corners of Cecil's vision, drifting outwards into oblivion. "World's sucking me in," he remarked, his tongue swollen and clumsy in his mouth. "I'm gonna lay down."

He did, sprawling back on his bed and wishing that the ceiling would stop twisting in on itself; he closed his eyes and waited for his mind to settle. There was a feeling of cool motion beneath his skin, as if his blood and been replaced with an autumn breeze. It carried his breath away with it.

Thirty seconds later, it was all right again. The vertigo abated and Cecil's sense came back to him again. Beneath it all, though, was a faint thrumming sensation that wasn't wholly unpleasant. He knew that this feeling would carry him throughout the day, until he took his next dose at dinnertime. Just now, in the afterglow of that amazing rise and crash, he could understand how some men might kill themselves to have it. He hummed happily to himself, laying still, until Seymour cautiously prodded his leg.

"You need to have a meal or you'll be ill," he said softly.

"In a minute."

"Get to the mess. Don't be ridiculous."

"Fine," Cecil sighed. With great effort, he rolled himself back out of bed and shuffled down the corridor to eat. The floor seemed unusually slanted to the left, but he knew that this was an illusion. If it were up to him, he would not take the lyrium – for all Seymour's assurances that it improved his abilities, it made him feel incompetent. Soon, said Trainer Ethan, that feeling would fade and a purity of the mind would overtake him, but that seemed eons away.

Walking into the mess hall, he saw that most people had gone on to their rounds already. Hector and Douglas were having a discussion at the far end of the table, and closer to the door was Oliver. Spotting Cecil, he waved and smiled.

"Hello, my fledgling templar," he said affectionately as Cecil approached. "Still a little stirred up, are we?"

"This medicine," Cecil murmured, rubbing the space between his eyes to soothe the tension there, "I know we're not supposed to ask questions, but is it worth it?"

"Of course it is," Oliver replied, though he frowned. "I've been taking it for seven years, and I'm all right, aren't I?"

"Yes, I… I guess."

Oliver probed him with his deep brown eyes, smiling faintly, and then he laughed. The sound startled Cecil out of the gentle current he had been following in his mind.

"What?"

"You're out of it," Oliver replied. "Some people are more vulnerable than others, I suppose… but it's funny. Your eyes…"

"What's wrong with my eyes?" Cecil snapped. "Quit staring into them, you queer."

"Haha," said Oliver humorlessly. Although his smile stayed on, a reflective quality came over his eyes. He began to twirl his fork around and around in his fingers. "You'll be patrolling the grounds today, by the way. I don't give the orders, but I overheard."

"Ah, good. Some fresh air should clear my head," Cecil said.

The corner of Oliver's mouth twitched, but he didn't comment; it was just as well. They both knew that the lyrium haze could not be cured with sleep or a cold breeze. It hung on like a stench, a bad aura.

"Have you eaten something?" Oliver asked. "You should eat something. Here. I didn't want it anyway." He shoved forth a half-eaten plate of eggs and bread, which Cecil poked at halfheartedly.

"If I eat anything, I think I'll be sick," he muttered.

"You'll be sick if you _don't_ eat something."

Probably it made Oliver feel better to boss Cecil around like a parent. By the same token, Cecil rather appreciated being told what to do. He pulled the still lukewarm plate close to his chest and tucked in; astonishingly, he found, the more he ate the better he felt. It was as if his life force had been thoroughly depleted – but he had been told it would be like this for a while yet.

"In the meantime," Oliver added, "if you should run across a blond elf mage, keep an eye on him."

"There are only, what? Twenty blond elf mages in the tower alone."

"Don't exaggerate." Oliver sighed and rested his chin on his knuckles. "He's a wee one. Marvin. A new mage."

"Yes, I've seen him."

"He's emotionally volatile. We've got nothing on him to suggest that he's even considering blood magic – but we're keeping an eye on him all the same. You understand?"

His mouth filling with bile, Cecil nodded. Suddenly, Peter's death was brought to the front of his mind, and the eggs he had just eaten threatened to come back up. He focused on breathing out his nose.

Oliver searched his face, as if trying to read into his mind, before he nodded. "All right. Finish getting ready before Captain Friday yells at you."

Captain Friday Presley was a sour-faced man who had little patience with the lax standards of the templar trainees, and thus when they were finally put under his direct control he tended to be a bit harsher with them than was strictly necessary. His second, Gracie, was a bit kinder to the new recruits, though not by much.

Not wanting to be on the receiving end of a public punishment, Cecil got quickly to his feet. All at once, the blood rushed from his head and he reeled, fingertips going numb, before he doubled over and vomited all over the floor.

One of the senior templars cheered and clapped. One of the women nearby stood up and swiftly moved away. The sharp, sour smell filled Cecil's head and he retched twice more; he dragged a hand over his mouth to wipe away the strings of cold saliva. "Ugh," he moaned. "No good."

"It'll pass," Oliver said kindly. "You should have eaten sooner."

Spitting once more to clean his mouth, Cecil staggered out of the mess to get dressed; some servant would mop up after him.

"Oh, hero," Israel mocked as she passed him in the hall. "You've got to be tougher than that."

"Fuck you," he rasped, and kept walking.

oOo

Patrolling the grounds was a bit of a pleasure, though not by much. The wide open spaces made Cecil feel skittish, because it was rare or him to have an open sky above him. Even as a young boy, before he was sent to the Chantry by his desperate mother, he had lived in a dark basement with only one small window. The feeling of air pushing over him, to see miles onwards without a single wall to stop him, made him feel naked and very small.

The certified mages had free run of the temple and the grounds, for the most part. Some of them led about their apprentices on the ground, to teach them to practice their focus; it was easy to get distracted by the lake, the birds, the sun. "Perfect focus," Cecil overheard one mage telling his protégé, "is all that will save you when the demons claw at your mind."

The apprentice put her hands over her eyes and started to cry. She was scolded for this, too.

Cecil wanted to sit in the grass, but his new armor was too restrictive. As another part of his graduation, he had received the thicker, more complicated templar armor – magically charmed, he had heard, to provide strength against the greater magics of fully-fledged mages. The sashes and skirts were even more complicated and made it difficult to relax. So, he stood, planting the tip of his spear into the earth so that he would have something to lean on.

It wasn't a particularly beautiful day, he didn't think. The air had a heavy, salty taste to it and the lake seemed even more tumultuous than usual, cresting in little pale wreaths before slamming into the rocky beach below. The powerful pulse of the lake had given the island its jagged appearance – steep and craggy where the tide smashed against it, and a smooth, sandy mooring beach on the other side. Because of its power, the lake was much respected and feared, especially amongst the more suspicious Dalish newcomers. More than once, a mage had tried to escape by swimming in it, only to find its powerful currents too great. Even those that escaped this way would not get far, exhausted and soaking wet, before the templars descended. How many bodies lay at the bottom of those gray waters?

One little apprentice was kneeling by the cliff's edge. Cecil watched silently, not commenting; his counterpart, another full templar named Silas, was beginning to nap where he stood, his head drooping down towards his chest. Suicides were an unfortunately common occurrence at the tower, but this little mage didn't seem to have any intention of jumping. He was toying with a stick, trying to prod something down in the brine. He may have found something dead wedged in the rocks.

"Oi!" Cecil barked as the child leaned dangerously close to the edge.

His head whipped around and the apprentice nearly toppled over the edge. He couldn't have been more than six years old. "Sorry!" he yelped immediately, drawing his stick back onto flat land. "I was just looking!"

"What's your name? Quit poking at things you've got no business with."

"Jude, sir," the apprentice replied. He scrunched up his nose, adding, "It's not a _thing_, it's a person."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Cecil snapped, not in the mood to be playing around with kids.

"Come see for yourself," Jude replied, scooting back off of the edge. "I was trying to wake him up."

Cecil's first thought was that the kid was playing with him; his next thought was that someone had jumped and smashed their head open, and the kid had been poking at a corpse. He jerked his spear out of the ground and ambled over, peering over the edge.

There was an outcropping, a natural cave formed by the motion of the waves. On the flat stone ledge, which was hardly two feet wide, there was a pile of mage's robes. Cecil stabbed at it with his spear, felt the resistance of skin underneath.

The figure yowled and unwound its body. A pale little face turned up and stared at Cecil disbelievingly, and he was astonished to recognize it immediately.

"Marvin!"

For a moment, there was no light of familiarity in those huge blue eyes, before a smile bloomed over that wan face. "Cecil!" he greeted. "Why are you poking me?"

"Question is, why are you hanging out on a cliff?"

Frowning, Marvin seemed to be searching his mind for a decent answer. Finally, he said, "I wanted to."

"No shit. Why did you want to?"

"Can you help me off of here, first?" Marvin asked, getting precariously to his feet. Cecil could see where his problem lay – the ledge was far enough down that, even with his arms fully extended, Marvin had no hope of pulling himself back up on his own.

Kneeling, Cecil extended one arm (a stupid move, really, which would have gotten him in serious trouble with his supervisor if his supervisor wasn't currently dozing in the sunlight), grasping Marvin by the front of his robes. Marvin grabbed at Cecil's elbow, curling his fingers into a groove in his armor, scrabbling his feet at the side of the cliff for purchase as Cecil heaved him back onto the island proper. There, Marvin clung to his arm, swaying slightly as he gained his bearings.

Jude, the little apprentice, grew bored and wandered off to accomplish more with his free time.

"Are you going to answer my question, now, or do you need more bodily contact?" Cecil grunted, shaking his arm to release it from Marvin's grip.

Even though he had been acting more or less normal, there was something not quite right about Marvin's eyes. They were vacant, opaque, staring – they lingered too long on things in the distance, and the sound of Cecil's voice seemed to startle him, as if he hadn't been paying attention.

"Are you all right?" Cecil asked. Even as he asked out of concern, he felt a flash of alarm. It wasn't impossible that Marvin had been taken over by a demon.

Marvin's mouth broke into a watery smile at last. "I'm fine," he said. "I just haven't been sleeping very well these last few days… so I decided to hang out by the ocean."

"You're pulling my leg."

"No, the water soothes me. I know we're not allowed out without express permission, that's why I was down on the ledge, so that I wouldn't be a bother…" Marvin tugged at his damp robes self-consciously, simpering in that tight sort of way that signaled that he was about to cry. "I just miss the smell of the trees so badly."

"Oh," Cecil said dumbly. Marvin must have been Dalish – that would make sense. He did know some Elvish, and though his accent was eliminated thanks to his abduction at a young age, he still had a strange ring on his vowels. "You're not having a crisis, or anything, are you? I have to let the templars know in that event."

"Hmm? Oh, I'm sure you've already gotten some heads-up on me, haven't you?" Marvin laughed shrilly. "No, I'm all right. Tired, maybe. Worried. It's good to be speaking with you, though – I'd thought you'd forgotten about me, after you were graduated. Congratulations on that, by the way."

"Worried about what?" Cecil asked, not about to be distracted by Marvin's meandering way of speaking. He'd never seemed quite so loquacious before.

Marvin made a mewling kind of sound. "It's nothing," he murmured. "Well, I mean… It's Peter."

"Do you not know what happened?"

"No. Nothing."

Cecil's mouth dried out and his tongue clicked inanely against his teeth. Words swelled up in his mouth like bile, wanting to spill out and tell Marvin everything, but he couldn't. He held them back with all of his strength. "I'm sorry," he managed to work out.

"You know, don't you?" Marvin's voice came out in a thin whisper. The tears that had been threatening to spill over finally started to slip down his cheeks.

Even though he didn't want to, Cecil nodded slowly, and at that Marvin began to sob.

"I thought so," he croaked. "I thought it might happen." He covered his eyes with his tiny fists and scrubbed furiously, as if the friction might stem the tears. "Thank you," he started to say. "Thank you."

"Don't… Look, don't thank me, just…" Cecil felt uncomfortably warm now, lost; this wasn't his station. "Uh, there, look… Don't cry, all right?"

Marvin slammed the flat side of his fist against Cecil's chest plate with a resounding clang, beat it twice with his angry little hands, and then he pressed his face against the cool metal and continued to cry. He swore violently under his breath, and then shrieked it, and then he was done, over the crest of his grieving. He was left now in the tender stage, milking the last of it before recovery.

"He was my best friend," he whispered against Cecil's stomach.

Without really thinking about it, Cecil gently patted his shoulder. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I think so. I do."

"Okay, then. Okay."

"Don't go."

"No, I won't… It's all right. I won't go. It's okay."

He kept one hand planted between Marvin's shoulder blades, gently rubbing until the hitch in the elf's breath subsided. Then he held him even longer, five minutes or so, while the mage stood utterly still. Somehow, the body heat from that tiny elf pelted through Cecil's armor like arrows. Finally, Marvin pulled away and mumbled awkwardly about a good night's sleep, though it was hardly the afternoon, and he ambled back towards the castle.

Silas, Cecil's superior, was still napping against the tower wall. There were no witnesses today, and thank the Maker for that.

oOo

On his way back to the templar quarters that night, Cecil bumped into Dylan, the girl mage whose Harrowing he had overseen. It was late for her to be out and about, but as a mage she could do as she pleased; likewise, his shift had run much later than usual and he was exhausted. They rounded the corner at the same time and collided, causing her to spill books everywhere onto the floor.

"Watch where you're going!" Cecil snapped.

"Why don't you keep your eyes open, you big oaf!" she snarled back.

"Don't you know what I am?" he growled at her, and, as expected, for all of her fire, she quailed. It was strange for Cecil to wield that much power, for even as a trainee his authority had been questionable.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Sorry, sorry, ser."

"Fine, then," he grumbled. He watched her pick up her books without offering to help, though he would have any other day; his kindness meter had been depleted for now. "Stay out of trouble."

"Okay, of course," she said. As she collected her materials, he noticed that she tried to hide the titles from him; suspicion whirled screaming through his mind. There were some books on dark magic in the tower – could she have gotten hold of one of them?

"Let me see that," he barked, yanking the books out of her arms. Ignoring her protests, he skimmed through their covers; what he found made him numb with astonishment. These were even more strange than books on blood magic or spirit conjuring – these were _cookbooks_. "What the fuck are you up to?" he demanded.

"Nothing," she replied in a sharp tone, reaching for her books impatiently. "Give me those."

"You're not a Tranquil, so you can't be a cook."

"Oh, good eye! I'm getting these for a friend."

More questions teemed on the tip of Cecil's tongue, but he bit them back. "Whatever," he grumbled, thrusting the tomes back into her outstretched arms. "Good night."

"Good night, ser." She dashed off into the darkness.

A powerful headache had started up just at Cecil's temples, throbbing insistently. He was about an hour late for his next dose of lyrium, and he was tired and drained. It was time for bed; he kept on walking.

- **to be continued**


End file.
